There she is.

She walks past and doesn’t see me. I revel in the smell of her, the whispering caress of her perfume. She’s dressed well today, as usual, with a dainty white dress that flowed around her knees. It is perfect for this sunny, bright day and she fairly shone among the lesser mortals surrounding her.

I wait, not too long to lose sight of her – never that – but not short enough that anyone will notice. As she crosses the street, I reach the corner and wait for the lights to change. My eyes flit and dart, never seeming to focus on the one thing. There is a park across the road, filled with children, smiling parents and dogs.

Just down the road, she stops at her favourite café. I am closer now, on the bench, borrowed paper held in careless hands. She won’t be much longer then ten minutes, depending on the line and her chat with Victor, the old Greek owner.

The bus arrives and passengers get off and on. I do not move and it passes me by, like her, like life and the rest of the world.

I breathe in deep, enjoying the cool, crisp air. It is almost time and my blood is singing. Just as she is leaving the café, I am crossing the street onto the block of little shops and cafés. It is busier here, but I melt into the crowd and am lost in a dizzying rush of colour and odours. This appeals to my baser side, this brush with the common filth – It's dirty and I like that.

She is almost lost to me for a moment, but there she is again – a glowing angel only metres away. I am too close, so I back away a few steps. “Fly my dove,” I murmur and it is lost in the hustle and bustle of everyday sound. The little green sign blinks on and we all move, robots triggered into motion; controlled by signs and expectations.

She likes to walk home; she thinks it's healthier and won’t harm the planet. Always thinking of others, bless her. She looks around and for one, breathless moment, our eyes meet within the crowd. Those brilliant blue orbs slide right on by and around, back to the front. I don’t mind.

It won’t be long now.

Only a few blocks left now, but here I have to leave her. The closer she gets to her suburban home, the less crowded it becomes. I would be noticed.

*

It is dark and cold.

The stars above glare down, twinkling. They demand their own back and I smile. “Soon,” I whisper. The trees press in on me, close and green and warm. They protect me and I give thanks. The holes in the house beckon me, empty doorways into her world. I open one, slide it gently across. I’m inside now and the interior is as familiar to me as my own home; I trail my hands across the walls, let the house know I’m here.

The stairs shiver beneath my feet in anticipation and I smile. I walk past the bathroom and the study to pause outside her door. It opened and my mouth parts in wonder and surprise; she is there, bewildered in her white nightie. She blinks once, confused and I clamp my hand over her mouth. Her eyes snap open, alert, and she breathes in deep. Her lips feel full and warm, soft beneath my hand. She slumps in my arms then, eyes rolled back into her head.

I carry her away.

*

The bands of steel latch closed over her smooth breasts and alabaster legs, so slim, cool and perfect. “My little angel,” I say and she opens her eyes. I watch the emotions stream through her: confusion, alarm, fear and finally, panic. She heaves at the bands, she twists and squirms but she can’t get away. Her voice box is crushed and she struggles to breathe.

Her mouth is open wide, face gone an ugly shade of crimson. There is no sound; I made sure of that. Beads of perspiration roll down her face and I mop her brow. She is filled to the brim with fear, panic and horror – it overflows and I suck it in, a void desperate to be filled.

I stroke her face, cooing. She calms eventually, lies placid beneath my hand. Her nipples are hard, poking through the thin nightie and my breath mists in the air. The moon is high in the sky, I know, and the stars are demanding.

It is time.

I lean over, look deep into her eyes.

“Bloom,” I say and slice open her throat. The river wells deep red, flows over and into the carefully prepared drainage system. Soon her heaving breaths subside into stillness and she is frozen, an image of perfection. I look down the long warehouse at the rows of beautiful, cold angels. Even amongst them, she is wonderful. Truly, my finest work yet – there is barely even a crease in her skin.

Now the brightest star is returned to the sky and I can rest easy, until another falls.